


Missing

by out_there



Category: Torchwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-01
Updated: 2007-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-15 04:50:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ianto misses the little things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missing

**Author's Note:**

> Written between S1 and S2, and therefore utterly jossed by canon.

Ianto doesn’t miss the sex when Jack’s gone. The sex was fantastic -- mind-blowingly amazing, so much so he doesn’t have the words to qualify it -- but that’s not what he misses.

What he actually misses surprises him. It’s not the big things because they’re easy to work around. Big things – Jack’s body lying warm and naked next to his; Jack riding in to the rescue, guns blazing – they’re obvious. They’re somehow easier not to miss, not as...

Even inside his head, Ianto’s not sure how to describe it. He’s not sure why it’s the little things, the details that catch him time and again. They keep surprising him, delivering a gut-punch flash of thinking Jack’s here and then remembering that he isn’t. They don’t know where, they don’t know when, but Jack’s not *here*. And every time Ianto remembers that, it hurts.

It’s the sound that interrupts his filing late at night, deep in the archives. He’ll find himself stopping, halfway between Ma and Mg, pausing to listen. He can hear the stillicide dripping of damp walls; the soft hum of the generators, louder in the lower levels. It takes Ianto a confused moment to realise what’s wrong.

There’s no gunfire in the background, slightly muffled from the gun range -- the sound of Jack entertaining himself or making sure his aim is still true, whichever story you choose to believe, whichever story Jack parades that night. The noise should be there.

The small things that Ianto expects are the worse. Because he doesn’t realise he expects them until he stops to work out what’s wrong and has that horrible stomach-lurching moment of remembering what he already knows. It’s walking into Jack’s office and not being able to smell that soap-gunpowder-cologne smell of him. Coming in every morning and finding the kitchen clear of dishes, nothing touched since Ianto left; no extra coffee cups, no plates of half-demolished take-away (eaten as a snack at 4am).

It’s getting caught up in data entry until nearly midnight and not being distracted by a hand on his shoulder, by Jack saying, “Hey, nine o’clock. Are you sure that can’t wait?” It’s all these little things that Ianto keeps missing, keeps subconsciously yearning for, keeps noticing only when they’re gone.

When they come back from Tibet, everybody jet-lagged and tired, and nobody quite sure of what’s gone on in their absence – the American President was assassinated, they know that much; they don’t know the details yet but UNIT’s never forthcoming with the details – Ianto doesn’t really notice things. He walks past Jack’s office, he doesn’t stop to try to smell the room.

He goes into the kitchen, washes up the couple of coffee cups in the sink, and goes about making cups of coffee for everyone. He makes five -– an old habit he hasn’t bothered breaking –- gives three out and takes the last two to the gun range.

Five steps from the door, that’s when he notices. He notices the noise that always makes him think of his first car (a beat-up old Metro Mini, a tiny tin can that backfired frequently and randomly, regardless of how much Ianto tinkered under the bonnet).

Ianto pauses, taking a deep breath, dragging the cold air through nose and throat, focusing on the sensation of chill hitting his lungs. He shouldn’t let himself hope. Every time he lets himself hope, lets himself forget, it hurts that much more when he remembers. But he knows this pattern of noise. He knows it.

Steadying his hands on the tray, Ianto steps forward.

Jack’s there, and the sight of him makes Ianto’s breath catch. He’s turned towards the target, one foot forward, hips at an angle, one arm stretched out straight and the other flat against his side. It’s such a familiar sight: boots, dark trousers, waistcoat fastened smoothly against the small of Jack’s back; the lines of tanned skin disappearing into the rolled sleeves of his shirt. Jack’s profile, the look of concentration, narrowed eyes and the shock of dark hair, the yellow safety glasses and earphones that Jack wears with the same panache as his greatcoat. It’s so familiar, so right to have Jack back, to have Jack here, slotting straight back into place, the puzzle piece that’s been missing for months in their lives.

Standing still, he waits for Jack to finish emptying the clip and set the gun down before stepping forward. He knows from experience that sudden movements in this room are only good if you enjoy Jack threatening you at gunpoint.

Jack notices the movement and turns to face him. Then he grins. A smile so wide, so bright, so purely joyous that Ianto wonders how the sun’s managed to rise in Jack’s absence.

"Thought you might be in need of a good cup of coffee," Ianto says, not bothering to fight his answering smile.

Jack throws his head back and laughs (Ianto would say that’s it’s unselfconscious but it’s not. Jack’s very aware of what he does. He’s also quite shameless). Then Jack leans forward, completely ignoring the tray that Ianto’s still holding in front of him, the two hot cups of coffee sitting on it. He just leans forward, reaches a hand behind Ianto’s neck and pulls him into a kiss. The type of soft, open-mouthed kiss that makes Ianto think of Cary Grant movies and black-and-white romance, even as he tightens his hold on the tray to make sure nothing gets dropped.

Jack pulls back but stays close for a moment, leaning their forehead together. "I missed you, Ianto Jones."

All Ianto can manage in reply is, "Nice to hear, sir."


End file.
